Jane’s TMA Blog

Galloping through life...

Thursday, 17 April. My birthday. The big 'four-oh'. Jeeeezuz!

I threw a big party at the Eagle Tavern just 3 miles from the Uffington White Horse and Waylands smithy, for my family and friends.

But before I donned my posh frock and starry sandals, I left the party organisers to get on with it and headed off in my gladrags to whip round possibly my most favourite places in the world - the White Horse and Waylands - for some calm before the mayhem of bands and buffets and boozing and boogying... and to reflect on the past 40 years and the last heartbreaking week which saw the death of my pusscat.

First stop the Blowing stone a peculiar beast indeed, lurking in its own picket-fenced enclosure in front of a line of small chalk-built cottages. It seems so lost and lonely, 'what great site had this been part of?', I wondered. It felt like the last of its line, a curiosity like a stuffed animal in a museum. But having said that, I liked it hugely and enjoyed it's quirky resting place nestling at a crossroads in deepest Oxfordshire.

Onwards along the road we wind beneath the dramatic ridge of White Horse Hill and turn up the farm track away from the 'official' car park. A short walk along the Ridgeway takes us to the great long barrow of Waylands Smithy. Is it the great beech trees which give the barrow so much intimacy? Why does it feel so much like home? I have lost count of the times I have been here for painting, picnics, loving, birdwatching, healing, photography, chillin', and now grieving and celebrating all at once. Sitting above the chamber on the capstone I look down into the mouth of the barrow and think of the beautiful, smooth, black, lifeless, feline body of Finbarr gracefully lying in her grave in my garden, 18 miles away. God, I loved that cat. But now its OK, and I can remember all the love we shared without bursting into tears.

I was curious to see the phenomenon of the way that although the long barrow is tapered, that if you stand at the very end, the edges of it appear parallel. Accident or design? I mused. Gotta be design. Surely? Very clever in any case.

Some 'oiks' ruined the vibe of the place for me today though, drinking woodpecker cider, grunting and playing their drums rather badly and exposing their unattractive white beer bellies to the light. I felt like slashing the tyres of their motorcycle left parked by the gate. How very intolerant of me! I must be getting old...

But at the Uffington White Horse I feel utterly peaceful, yet alive and vibrant, and I completely understand my context within the world. I have sat here quietly over the years with friends, family, guests from abroad, my children, and various lovers on numerous occasions. I love the big skies, I love the rolling weather skimming above your head, I love to see the kestrels hover below me and the larks rise above. I love the texture of the fine sheep-grazed grass and the wide-angle view of my county. I love to know that it will always be like this.

I make a quick pencil sketch, knowing that although I'd be happy to stay here all night, I have a party to host.

But sit with me a moment longer on hillside, just above the horse's head and look down and see Dragon hill. Wow! What is this massive chalky children's sandcastle? A landing pad for flying white horses? Certainly a significant ritual place. I think of Mexican temples, Guatemalan ruins at Tikal, Saqqara pyramid in Egypt. What happened here? It feels like a place of sacrifice or death, but not in a morbid way. Perhaps the dead were laid out on platforms up here, to be picked off by crows, or maybe a priest performed sky burials?

Now, fly with me back to the Eagle Tavern to celebrate my 40th birthday! Cheers!

...a peculiar beast indeed, lurking in its own picket-fenced enclosure in front of a line of small chalk-built cottages. It seems so lost and lonely, 'what great site had this been part of?', I wondered. It felt like the last of its line, a curiosity like a stuffed animal in a museum. But having said that, I liked it hugely and enjoyed it's quirky resting place nestling at a crossroads in deepest Oxfordshire.

Ah!.... the great long barrow of Waylands Smithy. Is it the great beech trees which give the barrow so much intimacy? Why does it feel so much like home? I have lost count of the times I have been here for painting, picnics, loving, birdwatching, healing, photography, chillin', and now grieving and celebrating all at once. Sitting above the chamber on the capstone I look down into the mouth of the barrow and think of the beautiful, newly dead, feline body of Finbarr gracefully lying in her grave in my garden, 18 miles away. God, I loved that cat. But Waylands has eradicated the grief and now I remember with joy all the love we shared.

I was curious to see the phenomenon of the way that although the long barrow is tapered, that if you stand at the very end, the edges of it appear parallel. 'Accident or design?' I mused. Gotta be design. Surely? Very clever in any case.